


Like a One-Way Ticket

by transfixeddream



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Lydia The All-Knowing, M/M, fuck buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/pseuds/transfixeddream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Jackson have been fucking around for the better part of a month now, and in Stiles' opinion, it's pretty damn awesome. However, one little question may be enough to end things entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a One-Way Ticket

**Author's Note:**

> Eons ago, shinyslasher won me in a fandom auction. She was amazingly patient in waiting, and hopefully this was worth it! All the praise to my awesome collaborator dephigravity who drew a _wonderful_ scene from the fic! [Check it out and leave him some love!](http://dephigravity.livejournal.com/80902.html) (NSFW) And a huge thank you to fiercelynormal for betaing the heck out of this. <3

Jackson's hands are hard on Stiles' hips, pressing into the flesh and bone, and Stiles is going to end up with bruises dotted along his sides but he doesn't care. His back is leaning against the door of the supply closet, his pants and underwear muddled together around his ankles, and Jackson's on his knees, mouth hot and tight and _so goddamn good_ around Stiles' cock. 

Stiles bites his lip to stifle a groan and cards his fingers through Jackson's hair. Jackson's eyes open wide at that, and he shoots Stiles a look of warning from under those long eyelashes. Stiles hears it loud and clear, knows from experience but Jackson seems to think he'll forget at some point if he doesn't remind him: no pulling. Instead Stiles lets his hand rest there, cradling the back of Jackson's head but not moving, his other hand splayed wide and pressing hard against the door. 

Every now and then realization will slip into Stiles' mind, between the constant medleys of _Oh my god, yes_ and _faster, harder, move, c'mon_ , of where they are. They're risking a hell of a lot if the janitor happens to need a mop during lunch, or worse, if their friends decide to come looking for them. Stiles tries to think of what would make any of them look in a supply closet, but then Jackson's nose is pressing against his skin, his cock bumping the back of Jackson's throat as Jackson takes him all the way, and the entirety of his thoughts jump to trying not to come immediately. 

"Shit," he hisses between his teeth, and somehow Jackson manages to smirk around his mouthful of cock like the smug bastard he is. He eases up, though, pulling off far enough to fit his hand around the base of Stiles' dick. His grip is loose but steady, and he bobs his head in smooth, wet slides, tongue pressed like an iron to the underside of Stiles' cock in a way that makes Stiles see stars. 

Jackson is, well. He's amazing at sucking cock, a kind of talent that can only come from genuinely loving what you're doing. He's sloppy with it, building up spit that ends up trailing down his chin, and he makes the best sounds as he's sinking down on Stiles. His eyes vary from half-open to fluttering shut, relaxed, and his lips are soft and full around Stiles' dick.

Stiles lets his hand drift down past Jackson's head, making a semi-unconscious choice to trail past his shoulders and under the neck of his t-shirt. Jackson's back is burning hot to Stiles' hand, and Stiles chooses to lose himself in the moment, to focus on the way Jackson's skin feels under his fingers, the way his lips are stretched around him, mouth the most wonderful thing that has ever existed. 

Just when Stiles is about to give in to the pressure building in his balls, Jackson pulls off completely. His lips are parted slightly, glossed over with spit, and Stiles wants to be angry that his mouth has been replaced by a fist, but he can't, not with that in front of him. "Close, Stilinski?" Jackson murmurs, mouth not even moving with the words as he jacks Stiles off with a couple of strokes that are a little too tight and a lot so good. When Stiles releases the most embarrassing noise he's ever heard with his own ears, Jackson goes down on Stiles' dick again, thankfully smirk-free. 

It barely takes a second after Jackson's mouth is on him again for Stiles to come, and he does so hard, eyes clenching and legs threatening to buckle, fingernails digging into Jackson's back. There're probably going to be half-moons in his skin and he will definitely bitch about it later, but Stiles can't bring himself to be concerned when Jackson's swallowing his load with vigor. 

When the last shakes of his orgasm have passed, Jackson gets to his feet abruptly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Stiles is taken out of his post-orgasmic daze far too quickly, but he scrambles to pull up his jeans anyway, and then reaches out to press his hand to Jackson's crotch. 

Jackson pulls away and shakes his head, taps at the invisible watch on his wrist. "No time," he says shortly, sounding all too cool despite the obvious bulge in his pants. 

"But--" Stiles starts, because hey, if there's anything he's learned over these past few months, is that reciprocation is what makes the world go round. Mutual orgasms are what make the birds sing, the flowers bloom, and freaking rainbows show up in the sky. And he is definitely not against returning the favor at all. Seriously, _at all_. 

"You wanna explain to everybody why the hell we missed all of lunch?" Jackson raises an eyebrow, then shrugs it off. He runs his thumb along Stiles' arm, and Stiles has to fight the shiver that runs down his spine. Jackson clearly knows it, because there's the smirk that Stiles alternates between wanting to punch and kiss, and he says, "Relax, man. I've got nothing planned tonight. Make it up to me then." 

He doesn't ask if Stiles can make it tonight, just assumes that he _will_ , which is annoying because it's cocky and also absolutely true. He flashes a grin at Stiles and says, "See you in five, Stilinski," and lets himself out. 

Stiles, for his part, knocks his head against the wall and waits until he can leave, too.

[ ](http://dephigravity.livejournal.com/80902.html)

*

Lydia is standing by Stiles' locker by the time he makes it out of chemistry. She's twisting a lock of hair around her finger, and she smiles slightly when she notices him walking up to her. Stiles tries not to think about the fact that Lydia bumped him up to almost-friends status around the same time he and her ex-boyfriend started fucking. He's still not sure he's used to her smiling at him in a way that's not pained. It feels somewhat unnatural after all these years; sometimes Stiles gets a little nostalgic for the times she looked at him with disregard. 

"Hi, Lydia," Stiles greets, as Lydia moves aside to let him get to his locker. Once upon a time (a month ago), Stiles would probably have collapsed if Lydia was waiting for him at his locker, but now he just greets her with a crooked grin and turns his attention to getting his combination right. 

"Stiles," Lydia says, her voice going an octave higher at the end. "I'm having a party next weekend." 

She says it like Stiles has missed the last two weeks of school or something: when Lydia decides to throw a party, there's at least a fifteen day advertising period. So Stiles just shoves his books into his locker and says, "Yep, I heard." 

"Well, I wanted to invite you personally," Lydia says with a smile a little too turned up in the corners to be completely genuine. Something's definitely up. "I hope you're planning on coming." 

And that right there is evidence enough that she needs him for something. Sure, he and Lydia may be friendly now, but he's pretty sure Lydia's not that friendly with _anybody_. "Maybe," Stiles says. When he sees Lydia's smile start to fade, though, he recants it. "Probably, yeah." 

Lydia's pleased by this answer, clearly, and she goes back to twirling her hair around her finger, studying Stiles. "You should bring a date." 

"A date?" Stiles is not the most subtle guy, and he knows this, but the words coming out in a squeak even surprise him. 

Lydia stares at him for a moment and then twists her lip. "Yes, Stiles, a date. It's not necessary or anything, but there's this girl in my Spanish class and she thinks you're--" 

"I already have a date," Stiles blurts out, and resists the impulse to frantically cover his hands with his mouth. He wants to blame it on the fact that Lydia was about to seriously ask him out, _for another girl_ , but the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks that maybe other facts were involved. 

"You already have a date," Lydia echoes, and Stiles can't pinpoint what exactly that look is on her face. It's a weird mix of surprise and intrigue, like maybe she knew Stiles had a date but didn't think he'd say so. And where the hell did that come from? Stiles is going to have enough problems if Lydia passively mentions this to Jackson; he doesn't need to add paranoia to the mix. 

"Uh, maybe," Stiles says. He clears his throat. "I--I'll get back to you. Or her. Whoever." 

Lydia looks skeptical, but she nods her head. "Sure," she says, and walks away with a short wave. 

And Stiles is an idiot, because Jackson is so not his "date." Jackson's a guy who happens to be really good at sex, who for some reason likes and/or doesn't mind having said sex with Stiles, but he's also still a semi-jerk. Sex with Jackson is awesome, and well, okay, he'd probably agree to go to the party if Jackson asked him, but only because Stiles doesn't like letting people down. Totally. 

He runs a scene of asking Jackson to the party through his head, and it ends with Jackson doubling over with laughter and Stiles walking away. Stiles figures the real deal will go just as well. 

*

"Oh, _Jesus_." Jackson says it in a rush, hand running over the top of Stiles' head. Stiles can't help but grin at that, despite the fact that his tongue is trailing spit around Jackson's nipple. He's still not over that smug feeling he gets whenever Jackson's rendered to a few simple phrases and sounds because of him. And, really, who would've guessed that Jackson Whittemore has a nipple thing? 

Stiles has Jackson on his back, legs spread wide with Stiles between them, and Jackson has one hand on Stiles' head and the other clutching a fistful of blankets. Stiles can feel his dick straining against his--wow, _very_ tight underwear--a hard, solid line rubbing against Stiles' belly. Stiles is hard himself, which is pretty much inevitable considering the fact that he has a hot and willing guy under him, but he finds it surprisingly easy to forget about himself right now. 

He flicks his tongue over the nub of Jackson's nipple and, encouraged by Jackson's sharp intake of breath, rolls the pad of his thumb over the other. Jackson lets out a sound that Stiles has maybe heard three times total since they've started screwing around, and he pushes up against Stiles, crotch tight to Stiles' stomach. Apparently words are too difficult at the moment, which would annoy Stiles if the scenario was anything but the current one. Instead, he lets his hand slide down the expanse of defined muscle that is Jackson's torso, and slips inside Jackson's underwear. 

The first touch of contact is electric, Jackson filling out even more in Stiles' hand, hot and heavy. Stiles strokes Jackson's cock a couple of times before realizing just how awkward the position is, especially given the fact that Jackson wears shrink-wrap for underwear. He swipes his tongue across Jackson's nipple once more, which earns him a "Fuck!" in return, and then pulls away. 

He uses the opportunity to remove Jackson's underwear, and lets himself appreciate the way Jackson looks completely naked, all hard, tanned lines of muscle, his cock jutting up towards his stomach. Jackson wraps his fingers around himself, slowly jerking off, and Stiles knows there's going to be a quip about having to do everything himself if he doesn't get into position in the next two seconds. 

He climbs back on the bed and positions himself at Jackson's side, immediately swatting away Jackson's hand. He spits into his palm and gets back into the rhythm of jacking Jackson off, barely managing to hold back a smirk as Jackson's impatient expression melts away into one of euphoria. His mouth is hanging open, bottom lip so full and pink, and Stiles is overcome with the dangerous urge to catch it between his teeth, to kiss Jackson hard and unrelenting. 

Instead, he slides the flat of his thumb across Jackson's slit and leans down, presses his mouth to the dead-center of Jackson's chest, sucks out a bruise like he's carving his name into Jackson's skin. Jackson may have made the no kissing on the mouth rule--probably right after watching _Pretty Woman_ , Stiles figures--but he's never had a problem with hickeys. Stiles figures that's a small consolation. Jackson apparently thinks so, too, given the fact that he's cupping the back of Stiles' neck with his hand, thumb slowly stroking the area of skin. And well, _that's_ new, but it's far from unpleasant. 

By the time Jackson starts pushing his hips up in rhythm to Stiles' strokes, Stiles knows he's close. "Shit, I--I'm--" Jackson starts, pretty uselessly at this point. Stiles wouldn't go as far as to say that he knows _everything_ about Jackson in bed, but he's definitely picked up on a few of his quirks. One of those being that he really only starts actively participating in getting himself off when he's close. 

Stiles moves a few inches down his chest and presses his lips to the smooth and unmarked skin there, and then Jackson's coming, tensing up in his hand and then blowing his load across his stomach, and Stiles is shocked (also, somewhat proud) when he feels a warm wetness hit his cheek. Stiles jerks him through the aftershocks, mouth sucking gently at the new spot he's claiming, until Jackson gives Stiles' nape a little squeeze. 

It's Jackson's way of saying, "Thanks for the orgasm but I'd like to clean the jizz off myself now," so Stiles pulls back and lets Jackson get up. He heads into the bathroom and emerges a few moments later, a cloth in hand that he tosses Stiles' way with a smirk. Stiles has to mentally will away the blush that starts to build up in his cheeks for some reason. 

As soon as he's set the cloth down, Jackson's kneeling on the bed, eyes intense as he looks at Stiles. "Alright, Stilinski, lose the pants," he says, which is right up there in Jackson Whittemore's Book of Pick-up Lines, right next to, "Just suck my dick already, _Christ_." 

"Uh," Stiles says, because he's who he is: a fucking moron who needs to look every gift horse in the mouth, "I thought that one was payback, for--" 

"Oh my god," Jackson says, rolling his eyes. "Please tell me you're not keeping track of who gets off who now." 

" _No_." Really, Stiles is not the one who even mentioned making orgasms up to anybody. That was all Jackson. "But you said--" 

"Yeah, I did," Jackson interrupts again, which sort of makes Stiles want to punch him. "But now I'm saying take off your pants, because I don't want one of my neighbors losing an eye from the harpoon in your pants. Honestly, you have to be the first dude in history that has to be talked into getting your dick sucked." 

"You're so unreasonable sometimes," Stiles mumbles. He wants to act incredulous. Really, he does. But Jackson is still naked and his mouth is looking very appealing and, well, it's not as if Jackson's understating how hard Stiles is right now. So he undoes his fly and strips in about five seconds flat, and then Jackson has an arm resting heavy on his stomach and his lips are wrapping around Stiles' dick. 

"Oh god, your mouth," Stiles spouts off, because somehow he can't help it. He's not entirely sure if it's a Jackson thing or a sex thing, or maybe even just a Stiles thing, but unless circumstances require him to bite his tongue for the duration, he tends to talk. Jackson doesn't seem to mind, really--if anything, Stiles might say it encourages him. The only problem is that sometimes, other thoughts can invade his mind apart from _oh god, yes_ and _more more more_ , and they're pretty much guaranteed to come as freely as the rest of Stiles' thoughts. 

Which is what he blames immediately when he says, "You should come to Lydia's party with me." 

Jackson's head slows, and it takes him a few moments before he pulls off. His lips are glossy with spit, dark from use, and he mostly looks confused. "Go with you?" 

"Let me stand beside you and soak up your awesome," Stiles remarks. Jackson just keeps looking at him, and Stiles figures if he has any chance of getting Jackson's mouth on him before his boner dies completely, he should get through this without the quips. "Yeah, like. Well. I guess it's sort of a date. Maybe." 

Jackson's eyes darken, his fingers clenching a little on Stiles' thigh. He seems to be debating a response, but then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, "Wasn't planning on going." 

Stiles isn't sure why, but the words make his chest fall and his stomach twist, and he casts his eyes down and nods. "Oh. Right, yeah. Sure. I wasn't really planning on going either." He licks his lips. "Wanna hang out instead?" 

"I think I'm busy that night," Jackson says, and then he stands up, glances at the clock. "Actually, my parents are probably gonna be back soon, so you should get going." 

Stiles knows for a fact that Jackson's parents won't be home before nine, but something about Jackson says that he shouldn't mention that right now. Instead, he nods again and says, "Yeah, no problem. Thanks for the company." 

"Sure," Jackson says, like he's oblivious to Stiles' sarcasm. He heads into the bathroom without saying anything else, and when he's still not out once Stiles' is done putting his clothes back on, Stiles doesn't bother waiting to see if he will. 

He's pretty sure getting dismissed by Jackson Whittemore during a blowjob is a new low that he didn't even know he could sink to. 

* 

Stiles tries to not let Jackson bother him. At the very least, he doesn't _want_ Jackson's dismissal to bother him. It's not like they're dating or even hanging out in a way that doesn't require them to have their clothes off and/or dicks out, so it shouldn't. It just shouldn't. 

Oh, but man, it totally does. 

It's not even that he's pissed. Well he is, of course, because having to jack off in the shower is a far cry from coming in Jackson's mouth, but that's just a small fraction of it. Somehow, Jackson Whittemore has managed to hurt his precious little feelings. It's ridiculous, is what it is, but the idea keeps cycling through Stiles' head endlessly. 

"Am I attractive?" Stiles blurts out when he and Scott are still alone at the lunch table. Scott freezes, his forkful of macaroni stuck in midair. His eyebrows are pressed together like he doesn't know what Stiles just asked him. "I mean, like, in a purely hypothetical way. Like if you were gay and Allison was not in the picture, and I didn't spend so much time at your house eating your food. Would you consider me attractive?" 

Scott still looks like he has no idea what Stiles is talking about, but that's somewhat fair, because Stiles is really just playing this one by ear. "Wait," he says after the longest pause of Stiles' life. "If I'm gay, why does it matter if Allison is in the picture or not? Is Allison a dude?" 

"No," Stiles says. "Allison is a girl. Okay, you're bi then. But she is not in the picture. Am I attractive?" 

"I suppose," Scott says, frowning slightly. "Though, I think I'd probably be more attracted to Der--" 

"Do not finish that statement," Stiles says with a grimace. He really doesn't need to be competing with Derek Hale for the hypothetical affections of his straight best friend. "But I'm not hideous-looking, right? I'm not unpleasant to look at?" 

"You're not unpleasant to look at," Scott confirms. "What's up?" 

"Nothing's up," Stiles says tightly. "A guy can't ask his best friend if he's attractive without provoking a bunch of questions? Jeez." 

Scott narrows his eyes, getting ready to ask another question, but then he shrugs it off and finally shoves his fork into his mouth. "Sorry." 

"My personality's good, too, right?" Stiles asks after a moment. "Like, I'm upbeat but not annoyingly so. And I'm fun to be around, right?" 

"Stiles. What is this about?" 

Stiles flashes Scott a forced smile. "I'm just curious is all." When Scott goes back to his macaroni, Stiles presses, "Well?" 

"Your personality is _fine_ , man," Scott says with a sigh. "Is this a Lydia thing?" 

"What? No! Lydia and I are fine. We're friends. I don't need to know if she finds me attractive anymore." Stiles emphasizes this with a tilt of his juice can. "I am totally over Lydia Martin," he finishes, taking a satisfying gulp of his lemonade. 

"Then is it a Jackson thing?" Scott asks, and he's really lucky that Stiles doesn't spray him with artificial citrusy goodness, because Stiles chokes _hard_. 

"No," Stiles says, though it's probably unconvincing considering he's wincing _and_ wiping his face with a napkin. "Why would you even think it was about Jackson?" 

Scott shrugs. "You seem to hang out with him a lot lately. That's all." 

"We don't hang out," Stiles says, and it's sort of the truth. "There is no hanging out to be had. Why would I hang out with Jackson? He's a prep-school reject." 

Scott doesn't look totally convinced, but he nods. "He is kind of a jerk." 

Stiles frowns. "Well, he's not really _that_ big of a jerk, when you think about it. It's totally just a front. He thinks it's better to be thought of as cool than to be well-liked, and it's not true at all. And he's absolutely capable of being nice even though everybody seems so eager to just make him into a bad guy. And really, who isn't a jerk sometimes? I'm a jerk, you're a jerk, we're all just jerks!" Stiles doesn't even know where it comes from, but Scott is looking at him like he's grown two heads and twelve eyes, and Stiles can't actually blame him. "I mean. Yeah, he's kind of a jerk." 

"Okay, sure," Scott says carefully. "Whatever you think, man." 

"My point is there are bigger jerks out there than Jackson," Stiles says, despite the fact that he's not entirely sure that _was_ his point. "Mel Gibson, for one." 

"Right," Scott says. "If I ask you something, do you promise not to make a scene?" 

"Yes." 

Scott drums his fingers on the table. "Do you like Jackson?" he asks, and Stiles tries not to gape like a fish. 

"I'm insulted you would even ask that," Stiles says, with dramatic outrage. He keeps it quiet, though--not because he promised Scott he wouldn't cause a scene, but because he doesn't want everybody in the cafeteria to know the reason said scene occurred. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," he adds, and then gets up from the table. Scott just stares at him, looking a little helpless as Stiles walks away. 

It's a stupid question. He doesn't _like_ Jackson. He likes _sex_ with Jackson. They're two totally different things. Sure, he might be looking forward to his interactions with Jackson more and more these days, but that's just his endorphins and his hormones liking what Jackson does for them. Jackson gives him orgasms, which in turn pleases said hormones, which makes his endorphins happy. He's pretty sure he read something like that in biology one time. 

When he's an appropriate distance from Scott, he lets his shoulders sag and faces the sad, sad truth: his answer to Scott's question is a unanimous yes. 

God help him, he likes _Jackson_. 

* 

Generally, Stiles is good with epiphanies. He's seen enough episodes of Oprah to know that they're supposedly awesome and insightful, along with some other crap an alleged professional spouted off that he can't remember right now. But the point is that he can adapt. He can take things in stride. And after about ten minutes of coming to terms with just how weird it is to _like_ somebody who gave him wedgies in elementary school, he can accept whatever feelings he may have for Jackson. (Considering that it took him an hour to digest the fact that he was having _sex_ with Jackson, way back when they first started hooking up, he considers it progress.) 

The problem with Jackson Whittemore, however, is that while he's really good at popping up whenever you don't want him around, he's pretty much impossible to find if you actually want to talk to him. Or, Stiles suddenly thinks, if he doesn't want to actually talk to you. He's pretty sure that's more paranoia talking than anything, because avoiding Stiles is probably very low on Jackson's to-do list. Making sure he has perfect hair and a spotless car are probably much higher priorities. 

Still, the fact remains that, try as hard as Stiles does (and he _does_ ) to look for him, Jackson's nowhere to be found at school. When he misses lacrosse practice, Stiles is half-tempted to ask Scott to sniff him out, but that just seems creepy. 

So he does what any sane, rational human being would do: he drives by Jackson's house a couple of times until he sees the Porche in the driveway, then parks his Jeep right behind it. He rings the doorbell and a maid answers, looking pretty unimpressed with Stiles, but she lets him in without question. 

"Yeah?" comes the reply when Stiles knocks on the bedroom door. Jackson sounds about as pleasant as a grizzly bear, which makes Stiles kind of want to try his best impression of a French maid, but he resists. 

Stiles runs his tongue between his lips. "Hey, uh. It's me." 

There's silence on the other end of the door for what feels like far too long, but finally it opens and then Jackson's scowling at Stiles. Hey, it's nice to see him, too. "Hi." 

"Your maid let me in," Stiles explains when Jackson doesn't make a move to say anything else. 

"I'm going to have to fire her," Jackson says, and it doesn't sound entirely like a joke. "What are you doing here?" 

Stiles feels suddenly infinitely awkward, which is a weird feeling coming from being in close proximity to Jackson. He'd gotten comfortable with the fact that there was no doubt Jackson actually wanted him around, and now that Jackson is looking at him like he's got gangrene on his face, well. It's not the most awesome feeling in the world. 

"I'm selling girl scout cookies," Stiles says, maybe a little harsher than what he was going for. To be fair, though, it's not like Jackson doesn't deserve it. "Feel free to kick me out if your parents are coming home in a couple of hours, though." 

To Jackson's credit, an expression that resembles something strangely close to guilt flickers across his eyes, but it's gone in a flash. "They're not getting back until late, actually." 

Stiles can't help quirking an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously like a proposition." 

Jackson slides on his best douchebag smirk--which has no right to be anything but ridiculous--and yet Stiles feels a flood of warmth fill him. And, shit, if this whole liking Jackson thing means he's going to get gooey when Jackson displays all the eloquence of a hooker, things are going to get problematic fast. Also, Stiles may like Jackson, but he's also still annoyed at him, and his dick needs to understand that and not fall prey to that smile. 

Despite all the protests Stiles _wants_ to vocalize, however, he goes all too willingly when Jackson grips him by the front of his shirt and drags him into the room. Jackson presses him against the wall, mouth like a brand on Stiles' neck, and his hands are already at Stiles' pants, fumbling with the button. 

Any other time Stiles would be totally game--okay, okay, right now he's pretty game, too--but for once he actually does not want to see Jackson to get off. Or at least, not _just_ to get off. 

"Hey, whoa, stop," he says, but it's totally lost on Jackson. The reflex to cup the back of Jackson's head as he sucks a hickey onto Stiles' throat probably isn't helping things, either. "I actually came here to talk." 

"You don't talk enough already, Stilinski?" Jackson says, sharp and sarcastic, but then he plants his lips back on Stiles' skin. 

"Seriously," Stiles says, and it takes a stupid amount of willpower to wrap his fingers around Jackson's wrists and push his hands away. Jackson steps back, looking annoyed, which is perfect because Stiles can relate. "Not everything we say to each other has to be, _Oh, god_." 

"It's not," Jackson says, lip twitching. "Sometimes you say _fuck_ , too." 

"You should really stop deflecting shit with sarcasm." 

"Well, I've been trying to deflect it other ways, but you're apparently not interested." 

Not for the first time in his life, Stiles feels the overwhelming urge to jam his fist into Jackson's face. "This isn't a joke, okay? I just, I don't _get_ you. You kick me out of here, and then you avoid me, and _then_ you practically jump me, all within twenty-four hours. You're way past mixed signals here, Jackson." 

"I don't see why you're making a big deal out of this." 

Stiles releases something that sounds like some mix of a laugh and a growl, because really? "Considering you made a big deal out of this first, I don't think it's wrong to wanna know why." 

"Jesus Christ, when did you become a girl?" Jackson asks, eyes hard. "You don't need to know my every thought; we're fucking, we're not in a relationship." 

"Because that would be a bad thing, right?" Stiles bites back. Jackson just stares at him, a little wide-eyed, and Stiles feels the tension in his shoulders disappear. "I mean, you'll gladly shove your hand in my pants, but god forbid you have to have an actual conversation with me." 

"Okay that's not--" Jackson starts, but cuts himself off with a shake of his head. When he opens his mouth again, he just sounds frustrated. "We agreed when we started this. Free of commitment and emotional attachments." 

Jackson rattles it off like he's reading a legal document, and Stiles is surprised by the hysterical laughter that bubbles out of him. "Well, surprise: apparently I'm not that great at separating sex and emotion!" 

If Stiles’ life resembled a romantic comedy in any way, this would be the moment that Jackson pulls his head out of his ass and admits that he's not good at separating the two, either, and they'd smile and look at each other as some soft rock song starts to play. Instead, Jackson gapes at him like a fish, which would be funny in any other situation that isn't this one. He doesn't look amused or angry, which Stiles figures is about as much as he could ask for. 

"I don't know what you want me to say," Jackson says after a few moments. 

Stiles sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, me neither." 

"So, what?" Jackson prompts. "Are we just... done?" 

It bothers Stiles how hard it is to nod. "Guess so," he says. He's fairly certain this is the most underwhelming non-breakup that's ever gone down. Probably the weirdest, too. 

"Back to friends without the benefits." There's a smirk slowly developing on Jackson's face. 

"Come on, it's not like we were even friends before this." 

Jackson flinches and Stiles wishes he hadn't said it so candidly. It sounds harsh, but it's not like it isn't true--they really have never been friends. Maybe that's how things were always supposed to be. 

"Awesome," Jackson says, voice strange and tight. "Well, in that case, feel free to get the fuck out of my house any time now, Stilinski." 

Stiles, well. He doesn't have to be told twice. 

* 

The next week goes by at a snail’s pace: Stiles only realizes after the fact just how much of his free time he devoted to screwing Jackson. Which basically means that instead of having sex, he now spends his nights watching episodes of _Storage Wars_ and _The Big Bang Theory_. Scott joins him most nights for a couple of hours, before he has werewolf shenanigans to get up to or before he has a date with Allison. Which is hilariously awkward, because Scott somehow thinks that he should feel bad about getting laid now that Stiles isn't, and he makes up long, transparent excuses instead of just saying what's what. 

But Stiles is doing _fine_. Jackson's gone back to a... whatever he was before they started hooking up, and despite the concerned glances Scott sometimes throws him at school, things have gone back to relative normalcy. Jackson's got his douchebag persona cranked up to an eleven again, and Stiles has developed a fondness for Chunky Monkey. Really, he's pretty sure that he's the big winner in all of this. 

Stiles is in the middle of an _Intervention_ marathon--and really, this show kind of puts things into perspective for him--when his doorbell rings. He sighs and sets down his carton of ice cream, grateful that the show's cutting to commercials, and heads to the door. Lydia is standing there, looking expectant, and she doesn't wait for Stiles to invite her in before she pushes past him. 

"We have a problem," she says. 

Stiles groans and squeezes his eyes shut. He does not need problems right now. "What'd Derek do this time?" 

Lydia makes a face. "What? Nothing. This doesn't involve him. It involves us." She frowns. "Okay, actually, no. It mostly involves you, but it's getting annoying to watch." 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Stiles says as he heads to the couch. He grabs his tub of Ben & Jerry's and puts his feet up on the table, and swings a hand when Lydia just puts her hands on her hips. "What?" 

"Please tell me you're not heartbroken over Jackson Whittemore," she says. "You're not allowed to be heartbroken over Jackson Whittemore." 

"I am _not_ heartbroken over Jackson Whittemore," Stiles says with an emphatic wave of his spoon. "Why would you even think that?" 

Lydia sighs. "You're eating ice cream and watching reality TV." 

Stiles shrugs. Sure, that's true, but there are some key differences. For one, he's not crying into the ice cream carton. "I didn't have dinner and I'm bored. Sue me." 

"Stiles," Lydia says with an all too knowing look. 

"I can't believe Scott told you," Stiles grumbles, because really. Scott and Lydia don't even interact--why would Scott go to her? 

"Scott didn't tell me anything. He didn't have to: you and Jackson are about as subtle as a brick to the head." 

"I'm _fine_ \--" Stiles stresses, then pauses to go over what Lydia just said. "Wait, what do you mean, me _and_ Jackson?" 

"Yeah, you're totally fine." Lydia rolls her eyes. "Yes, you and Jackson. He's crying into his pillow as we speak." 

"Liar," Stiles says. 

"Well, he's crabbier than usual," Lydia offers. "Jackson's not good at using his words. But that's not why I'm here." 

Stiles is missing the good part of _Intervention_ , but Lydia's not going to leave until she's satisfied. That's something that he usually admires, but right now it's just annoying. "Okay, fine," Stiles mutters, dropping his spoon into the carton. "Why _are_ you here?" 

"Because my party's tomorrow and I know you have no intention of attending," she says pointedly. "And I for some reason will be unable to fully enjoy myself if I know you're sitting on your couch and eating your weight in ice cream." 

"So this is about you," Stiles says, though he does appreciate the fact that his presumed misery affects Lydia a little bit. 

"Exactly," Lydia says. "So you're coming, and you just so happen to have a date." 

"It's a party, I don't need a date." 

"And you just so happen to have a date," Lydia repeats, eyes narrowed. 

"Fine," Stiles says, arms crossed, and Lydia looks far too pleased with herself. "But I won't have fun." 

"That's okay. As long as I do." Lydia glances down at Stiles' ice cream. "In the meantime, I'm getting a spoon. If you're going to be not-heartbroken over Jackson, I want in." 

* 

Stiles' date ends up being somebody he at least knows by name, which makes the night about an eight on the awkward scale rather than the ten he was expecting. It's not that much of an improvement, but he'll take what he can get. Vanessa is in his history class, but that's practically all he does know about her, other than the fact that Lydia greatly exaggerated how much she liked him. By which he means that Lydia made it up completely, because while Vanessa seems to be nice enough, she also appears to have very little romantic interest in Stiles. 

Which, whatever. He's three for three in that category, so he's getting used to it. 

"So," Stiles starts, "That was some history test Thursday, huh?" 

Vanessa looks taken aback for a moment, but then she raises an eyebrow, slight smile settling on her lips. "You seriously wanna talk about a test tonight?" she asks, but she just looks amused. 

"No," Stiles says immediately, and Vanessa laughs, moving the discussion into the very safe category of movies. 

Lydia's party, like all of Lydia's parties, is a grand affair. The living room is packed with people, the music pounding loud enough that Stiles has to shout out half the things he says, just so Vanessa can hear them. They're pressed close on the couch solely because there's a couple getting hot and heavy right beside Stiles, and he would rather be close to a girl who Lydia possibly bribed rather than get groped by random people. 

Stiles nurses a Solo cup of beer and tries his best to keep a conversation up with Vanessa, because he figures if she's willing to try, he should be, too. Scott and Allison have come and gone to parts unknown (but easily guessable), so it's not like he has a lot of options to pass the time, anyway. The only other person at the party who Stiles might want to talk to is Lydia, who's currently too busy playing hostess to sit down for longer than two minutes. 

After Stiles has had one and a half beers, he's feeling a little looser and is considering the fact that maybe Lydia had a point. Sure, he's missing what's probably a very entertaining six hour marathon of _Wipeout_ right now, but he's not having a horrible time here at the party, either. Maybe human interaction--even if he's not necessarily interacting with them himself--isn't a bad thing. 

Stiles' is in the middle of doing his best Christian Bale Batman voice, when somebody says behind him, "You should probably get that checked out, Stilinski," and Stiles freezes. It's a stupid reaction to Jackson speaking to him for the first time in a week, and he mentally kicks himself in the head for it. 

Jackson's wearing a white button-down shirt that has more buttons popped than necessary, and tight-fitting jeans that look like they were painted on. Naturally Jackson would be here, even though he told Stiles he wouldn't be, and he'd have to look like he just stepped off a GQ photoshoot. He's smirking, his best condescending look aimed directly at Stiles. 

"Jackson," Stiles says with a smile that hopefully reads as fake as it is, "I'm so glad you decided to honor us with your presence." 

The smirk doesn't stray from Jackson's face. Instead, he nods towards Vanessa. "Who's your new friend?" 

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" 

"Not lately," Jackson says with thinly-veiled subtlety, and Stiles clenches his jaw at the implication. And seriously, fuck him. Fuck. Him. Jackson does not need to be coming up to Stiles at a crowded party and acting like his shit doesn't stink. 

"I'll be right back," Stiles says to Vanessa, though he's currently trying to burn a hole into Jackson's skull. He doesn't wait for an answer, just stands up and walks past Jackson and his victory sneer. 

Stiles heads to the corner of the room and then whips around to meet Jackson's smug expression. "What the hell are you doing?" 

"Nice tits," Jackson says casually, skirting around the question as he looks over his shoulder at Vanessa. "It's too bad she has zero interest in you." 

"What the fuck are you _doing_?" Stiles asks again, teeth clenched. 

Jackson's face softens, a little too much to be completely natural. "I want to talk." 

Stiles snorts. "Right. Okay, now you want to talk," he says, and then moves to brush past Jackson. Whatever Jackson's game is, he doesn't wanna play it. 

"I'm serious," Jackson says, catching Stiles' arm in a tight grip. "Just a couple minutes of your time, man." 

Stiles sighs, feeling himself relent even before he nods. "Fine. Go." 

Jackson raises an eyebrow and gestures with his hand. "You want to try and have a discussion in here? I can't even hear myself think. Let's go upstairs." 

"Yeah, that's not conspicuous at all," Stiles mutters, because Jackson's already abandoning him and heading for the stairs. And Stiles really shouldn't go, because he doesn't owe Jackson anything other than maybe a punch in the mouth, but he finds his legs making strides to catch up with Jackson. 

Jackson goes into the first open door, and when Stiles enters he has enough time to realize it's a guest room before Jackson shoves him up against the wall. 

"God damn, can you be more of a caveman?" Stiles grunts, because seriously, he is going to have brain damage if he keeps getting pushed into walls by Jackson. This shit is not okay. Jackson seems to think it is, though, because he lets out a huff of laughter, face split into a genuine smile. Stiles can't remember if he's ever actually seen Jackson smile. Smirk, sure. His weird scorn-laced one, all the time. But this might be a new expression altogether for Jackson. 

"Can you be more of a baby?" Jackson says, and then he closes the distance between them and kisses Stiles. 

At first, Stiles has no idea what the hell is going on. Jackson doesn't do kissing, except apparently now he does, because there's no mistaking the hard press of his mouth against Stiles', warm tongue skimming over his bottom lip. Stiles loses himself in it for a minute, opens up for Jackson and revels in the warmth there. It's not exactly perfect, because while Stiles knows most of Jackson's body almost as well as he knows his own, Jackson's mouth is unfamiliar ground. 

Stiles fists the front of Jackson's shirt, and about at that same time his brain suddenly kicks in and reminds him of the reality of the situation. He and Jackson aren't... _whatever_ anymore, and he shouldn't enjoy this. With one solid shove to his chest, Jackson stumbles back, taken off guard. 

"What the fuck?" he spits, and he's definitely not smiling now. 

"You wanted to talk." Stiles takes a step away from the wall and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "So talk." 

"I was kind of liking what we were doing more," Jackson says, and then raises his hands in surrender when Stiles takes a step towards the door. "Alright, jeez, Stilinski. Take a joke once and a while." 

Stiles swallows down the urge to say something he'll probably regret, and instead he just holds his arms out. _Get on with it._

"Okay," Jackson says, stretching it out and prolonging the moment. Stiles wants to threaten to leave again, but the fact that Jackson Whittemore's having trouble articulating words means it's probably something Stiles wants to hear. "I, uh, I thought it over. And I--I just. I was _thinking_..." 

"We've established that you've been thinking," Stiles says, and Jackson shoots him a glare that lacks the appropriate heat. 

"Fuck, just let me say this. You're so goddamn difficult," Jackson says, taking a moment to sigh and run a hand through his hair. "You might not have been the only one who--oh god this sounds pathetic--got attached." 

"Really." Stiles licks his lips. He's not entirely sure if he's hearing Jackson right, and he sure as hell has no idea how to process it if he is. "And it took you a week to figure that out?" 

"Not exactly," Jackson says, shifting on his feet. "Part of that was spent trashing you." 

Stiles shrugs, because he knows what that's like. "At least you're honest." 

Jackson rubs at the back of his neck. "So. Are we good now?" 

"All you've told me is that you got attached," Stiles says, taking a step toward Jackson. "I have no idea how to take that." 

"Are you--?" Jackson huffs a breath and shakes his head. "Seriously? You're really going to make me spell it out for you?" 

"Use your words," Stiles says with a nod. "It's not that hard." 

"Right," Jackson mutters. "Fine. I don't think I would necessarily hate it if we watched a movie before you sucked my dick." 

Stiles takes another step forward. "You're such a fucking romantic, dude." 

Jackson scowls. "Do you want me to go and pick you some damn flowers? Just accept that I give a shit about you and stop this torture." 

Stiles can't help but smirk at Jackson's indignation. "Yeah, okay," he says, and then he takes the last step to close the distance between them. He doesn't give Jackson time to react, just pushes his chest hard. Jackson tumbles back with something akin to a squawk, falling onto the bed. 

"What the _fuck_?" Jackson demands, rising up on his forearms. Stiles ignores him and heads to the door, shuts it and locks it. When he turns around, Jackson's sour expression has vanished, replaced with one of slight confusion but definite acquiescence. 

Stiles takes advantage of the fact that Jackson still hasn't gotten up and walks over to the bed. He wastes no time moving over Jackson's dangling legs to straddle Jackson's waist. Jackson still looks a little puzzled, but he grips Stiles' hips with his hands, tongue running across the edge of his lip. 

"I agree with everything you said," Stiles says quietly. "But I'm especially in agreement with the making out part." 

Jackson has just enough time to snort before Stiles closes the gap between them and crushes their mouths together. It's too hard and too fast, and Stiles is actually worried he might've broken a tooth for the entire two seconds it takes before pleasure wins out and Jackson's mouth moves in time with his. Jackson's lips are soft and pliant, and it's--it's really fucking good, but it's also a little weird. Being denied this for so long, Stiles has to remind himself that this is actually something he's allowed to do. 

Stiles breaks away for all of a moment, pulling off his shirt in one quick tug. He moves onto Jackson then, popping the last few buttons on his shirt that weren't already undone, fingers working as fast as he can. One button breaks off and lands on the bed, but before Jackson can bitch about it, Stiles is back there, mouth to Jackson's, tongue skirting along the edge of his lip. Jackson's hand comes up and cups the side of Stiles' face, fingers pushing up the short hair behind his ear. And hey, if this is what Stiles gets rewarded with for destroying Jackson's clothes, he might start making it a regular thing. 

As if Jackson can hear his thoughts, he moves the hand down to Stiles' side, his other settling on Stiles' shoulder, and then-- _Jesus_ , Stiles is on his back in an instant and Jackson is looking down at him with blown out eyes and a wild grin. He removes the remnants of his shirt and tosses it on the floor, leaning down quick to kiss Stiles' jaw, mouth moving south down his throat, then chest, then stomach. Stiles does his best to avoid arching his back, lets his eyes drift shut and his hands bunch in the blankets at his sides. 

Jackson continues the warm trail down to Stiles' belly button and then finally stops, hands working at the fly of his jeans. Jackson gives a grunt that Stiles takes as a sign to raise his hips, and then he's naked, cock filling out even more against his stomach. Jackson presses another kiss to the shaft, and Stiles thinks for a moment that Jackson's planning on making up for a month of refusing to kiss at all, but then Jackson's mouth is released from his dick. 

Stiles opens his eyes after a few seconds of nothing, only to see Jackson sucking the life out of his fingers, spit dribbling down his hand. Stiles wants to say something smart, just because Jackson is currently sucking the least important thing in this room, but then Jackson slides them out of his mouth and immediately presses them between Stiles' cheeks. _Oh._

Jackson starts slow, pad of a single finger pressing against Stiles' hole, then pushing in, barely a fraction but it still feels like too much. It's not like they haven't done this before or anything, but Stiles is having a hard time picking out the last time this happened. Jackson edges in deeper, and Stiles wiggles around his finger, trying to get used to it. 

"What would your date say, Stilinski?" Jackson murmurs, finger sinking in to the knuckle, and Stiles can feel every inch of it. "Seeing you like this. All spread out for me." 

"Shut up," Stiles says immediately, face feeling hot and throat feeling dry. He covers his eyes with his arm, listens to his heavy breathing as Jackson opens him up. 

Two fingers come a little later, and Stiles bites down on his lip, waiting for the burn to give way to pleasure. He knows from experience that after the discomfort comes something fan-fucking-tastic. Jackson leans down and catches his mouth in another kiss, fingers twisting inside Stiles, and he can't help but gasp as Jackson presses deep. 

It doesn't take all that long before Stiles is rocking against Jackson in time, trading panting, quick kisses between breaths. Jackson removes his fingers and lines up a third, but Jesus Christ, Stiles cannot wait anymore. He reaches down to grab Jackson's wrist, shakes his head when Jackson pulls away from his mouth, confused. "Enough. C'mon, man, I'm ready." 

Jackson nods and gets off the bed, hands digging in his pockets. He drops a condom and a tiny packet of lube on the mattress, and Stiles can't help but snicker. 

"The Boy Scouts taught you will," he says, grabbing the condom and tearing the wrapper open, then holding it out for Jackson, who's busy stepping out of his jeans. "Always be prepared." 

"Screw you, Stilinski," Jackson says, laugh in his words even as he takes the condom. 

"Yeah." Stiles spreads his legs slightly. "That's the idea." 

Jackson's smile fades and he swallows, nodding shakily, and Stiles is relieved to see that Jackson appears a little nervous, too. He's not entirely sure why either of them should be, because it's not like this is new territory or anything for them or anything. Except, Stiles realizes as he watches Jackson roll the condom on, lip caught between his teeth, maybe it _is_. 

"On your side," Jackson says, voice suddenly thick. 

Stiles complies, sliding up a little on the bed to make sure neither of them roll off, because that would totally suck. The bed dips and Jackson's there, smearing lube around Stiles' hole and then pushing inside with his fingers, a few quick thrusts before he lies on the bed behind Stiles. There's a moment where nothing happens, Stiles unable to not hold his breath, and then Jackson's dick is suddenly there, head slippery with lube as he lines it up against Stiles' opening. 

Jackson sets his hand on Stiles' shoulder and squeezes, and then he's pressing in, and Stiles groans at the push, the stretch immediate. Stiles clenches his fist in the blankets as Jackson sinks in farther, slow and steady. It feels like a lifetime before Jackson's in completely, and Stiles is so full that it feels hard to breathe, chest packed tight with air. 

"You good?" Jackson asks, warm breath against the back of Stiles' neck. Stiles nods, despite the fact that he's maybe not _completely_ used to the thickness of Jackson just yet, and then Jackson pulls back, drawing himself out slightly before pushing back in. He grips Stiles waist and repeats the movement, sliding out farther and then back in faster, fingers digging into Stiles' skin. 

It doesn't take long before Jackson gets a rhythm going, short, smooth thrusts, hips rotating on every push in. Stiles presses back, moving in time with Jackson. His body is sweating, quickly growing tired of the exertion, but Stiles doesn't really care, too focused on Jackson's warmth behind him, in him. He lets his hand run down his chest and grip his dick, and he jerks it fast, uneven with everything else but welcomed relief.

His orgasm takes him by surprise, tipping over the edge quickly and spilling over his hand, dribbling down between his fingers. He's almost embarrassed, but then a moment later Jackson lets out a groan, shaking as he comes too, nose digging into Stiles' nape. Jackson thrusts in a couple more times, uneven and aimless, before he goes still, hand slowly traveling up the length of Stiles' side.

They lie there for a couple of minutes, until the appeal of lying in their own come and sweat vanishes completely. Then Jackson pulls out, disposes of the condom, and Stiles looks for anything to clean his hands on. And, shit, Lydia is probably going to kill them both for defiling her guest room. And then probably kill Stiles again for ditching the date she set up for him. He figures it was kind of worth it, though. 

"Well, _that_ was unexpected," Jackson says as he picks up his shirt. 

"Says the guy who came prepared," Stiles says, and Jackson just smirks. 

"Hey, I was hopeful, not sure." Something about his tone tells Stiles that he's totally lying right now, the smug bastard. 

"Sure you were," Stiles says, and Jackson just grins. It's easy, maybe a little too easy, but Stiles isn't naive enough to think that it's going to stay this way. "We're gonna have to talk, you know." 

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Awesome," he says, but he's still smiling, so Stiles figures he's up for it. 

For now, that's gonna be enough.


End file.
